by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I will take the key
that unlocks you
and peer inside
to see yards and yards
of colorful fabric
on assorted bolts,
some material so thin
air and light comes through,
some so soft and thick
it feels like gray wool
from the long haired mountain sheep.
There I find a memory
from a northern forest
when snow filled up the floor,
and wind blew so strong
we looked for shelter
and found a circle of white cedar
whose branches hung down like loving arms.
Inside the circle
snowflakes were suspended in mid-air
as if in a crystalline hour glass.
And then there was the memory
of the sweetest summer night
in the high desert
when cool breezes played with us
to the tune of dancing hummingbirds
chatting to each other
as the fullest moon came up over the hills:
Two braided ribbons I’ll place around my neck
and wear forever.
fourwindowspress 